Healthy Obsession
by MyLittleAssassin
Summary: Alex knows he's obsessed. But an obsession like this couldn't be too bad, right? Alex/Desmond. Request.


**A/N: IMPORTANT!****The idea for this fic is not mine! The idea rightfully belongs to HeidiFox and therefore this fic is dedicated to her. Hope you like it, darling!**

He knew he should've moved when he had the chance. Being on the run, he couldn't stay in one area for too long anyway, and he'd already spent a substantial amount of time in New York. But he had to admit, he loved the big city that never slept. He loved its flashiness and its colorful characters and fantastic restaurants; he loved everything about Manhattan (aside from the traffic, that was a real bitch,) and he just couldn't seem to move away.

Now, running for his life from what seemed like an army of grotesque, deformed, infected _things_, he wished that he'd have gotten over his adoration for the city and high-tailed it out of there. But _no_, he just _absolutely had_ _to stay_ for just a _little_ while longer.

What a great idea that had been.

_Of course_ New York had to become infected with some crazy virus. _Of course_ he had to live in New York when it became infected with some crazy virus. And _of fucking course_ he happened to gain the attention of previous New Yorkers that had been infected with some crazy virus. And now he was certain he was dead. Still, he forced his legs to pump faster than they'd ever gone before in a damn near hopeless attempt to live.

"Shit!"

Desmond cursed profoundly when he was nearly hit by a passing car that was just as desperate to escape as he was, though they did manage to slam the brakes in time to avoid hitting him. He saw a middle-aged woman with ruffled brown hair and crazy eyes sitting in the driver's seat, staring at him angrily. In her haste to escape, she slammed her hand down on the horn, making it blare at ear-bleeding volumes.

Desmond reflexively covered his ears with his hands in a crushing grip, stumbling backwards to uselessly try to make the blasting horn quieter. He yelled in fear when the car sped off, tires screeching and engine roaring, nearly running him over. Luckily, he managed to dodge the car by throwing himself backward, landing harshly on his behind. Grinding his teeth together in rage, Desmond glared furiously at the retreating car and quickly stood from his position on the dirty ground.

"Fuck you, too, then!" he yelled. He was certain the crazy bitch didn't hear him, but what else could he do?

Nervously looking around, Desmond noticed that the speeding car had distracted the walkers following him and he had a window of opportunity to escape. Well, he wasn't going to pass that up. He tried to be as discreet as possible, but his footsteps ended up making about as much noise as sneakers could on asphalt.

His breath was ragged as he ran, deftly avoiding obstacles and walkers, but he wasn't safe in the slightest. Nor would he be able to defend himself if he did manage to attract another group of walkers. Still, with his ability to steer relatively clear of any threat, he was making great time. Maybe his assassin training _had_ served some purpose.

Suddenly Desmond was yearning to be home. He certainly wasn't yearning for his _family_, because, well, they'd never gotten on well, but he still wished for the quiet countryside. The beautiful horizons and clear, open skies, not bloody streets and cracked pavement.

As he rounded another corner, Desmond nearly ran face-first into an infected man. He choked down a scream at the bloody jaw and blistered skin of the fat, ugly zombie, nearly throwing up at the smell of its rancid breath. He _did_ scream, though, when the thing lunged for him, its arms outstretched and fingers curled as though it was simply _itching_ to tear into his skin.

Which it was.

He scrambled backwards, narrowly avoiding the walker's snapping teeth, and desperately searched for a weapon. With the mass destruction of New York, there had to be _something_ lying around he could defend himself with.

His heart involuntarily soared with hope at the sight of a tire iron that had fallen from the torn remnants of a crashed car. Infected had clearly ravaged the thing, but the iron seemed relatively untouched by the virus. Kicking the walker that was looming above him in the chest, Desmond made a hasty retreat to the crashed car. He grinned crazily as his fingers gripped the cool metal of the tire iron, and he turned around to take a wide-arced, powerful swing at the walkers head.

Miraculously, he hit his target head-on and watched in satisfaction as the metal tool in his hand crashed into rotten skin, shattering the skull and sending the figure to the ground. He didn't bother to see if the infected thing was still alive in favor of cutting his losses and making a quick escape. Thankfully, he was nearing uninfected streets and soon enough was catching his breath against the wall of a bakery.

Bracing his hands on his knees, Desmond panted harshly as his lungs throbbed and screamed for air. The people around him didn't cast him a second glance, and for that, he was grateful. He'd had enough attention for the day.

When he regained the ability to breathe, Desmond took his time getting to his apartment. It was late into the evening and he was more than tired, but a slow, peaceful walk couldn't hurt him any. His adrenaline level gradually dropped and he was left to admire the scenery of New York.

He'd only been walking for twenty minutes before he started to feel the cold nip of the autumn air, and he decided to take a shortcut to his apartment building. It involved traversing through a dark, dank alleyway that was ridiculously narrow and long, but…he wanted to go home. He'd never wanted to go to bed so badly before.

His first few steps into the alley were apprehensive; with every step further he took into the narrow space, he grew more and more anxious until he was _certain_ he was being followed. He was being paranoid, he knew, but his instincts had never failed him before. Steeling his nerves, Desmond whirled around to face whatever was behind him.

There was nothing there.

Okay…if he was freaking out before, Desmond didn't have a word for what he was now. Heart hammering in his chest, he turned tail and ran down the rest of the alley and didn't stop when he turned the corner. He kept running until he could see his apartment building, and even then he only slowed to a very fast walk.

Pushing his way through the crowd, the bartender made his way to the elevator and pressed the button to his floor multiple times, as if that would make it move any faster. When the shiny steel doors finally opened and let him in, shortly shutting behind him, he rested his back against the far wall and gave a sigh of relief. Nothing could follow him in here.

At least…he didn't think so.

Sighing again, Desmond stepped from the elevator when it stopped to his floor and slowly walked to his apartment. As he stepped inside, he shed his jacket and jeans, letting them land carelessly on the floor. He fixed himself a bowl of cereal for an easy, quick dinner and sat on his couch, turning on the television.

As expected, videos of the destruction and chaos BLACKLIGHT had caused were playing nonstop. Desmond reclined on his sofa and watched in silence as screenshots of Alex Mercer flashed across the screen.

Honestly, he felt a little sorry for the guy. He'd been infected and was allowed to live, something almost nobody could do, and now the military and Blackwatch were actively trying to kill him. Desmond didn't know for sure what Mercer was up to, but he figured that he couldn't mean much harm. From the small snippets of videos he'd seen, Mercer was quite adept at destroying hives, strictly sticking to consuming only walkers and hunters, and overall just doing good with the powers he'd been given.

In Desmond's opinion, the guy was seriously misunderstood and all the videos on the news were probably altered to make him look like a bad guy. Leave it to the news to spread false stories and antagonize an innocent person.

Desmond shook his head as he stood, making his way to the kitchen to dump his empty bowl and spoon in the sink. As he was retreating to his bedroom, however, he passed an open window and thought he saw a figure making a hasty retreat. Desmond jumped and cautiously walked over to the pane, sticking his head out to stare at the surrounding buildings and streets below.

Thoroughly weirded out, the bartender backed away from the window, shutting it slowly. Now that he thought about it, he could have _sworn_ that window hadn't been opened. And he was certain he saw someone jumping out of that suspiciously-open window. Snapping the blinds closed, Desmond nervously ran back to his room, not bothering to shut off the television or lights, and slammed the door closed firmly.

He didn't get any sleep that night.

* * *

He had to have the shittiest luck. He absolutely had to. Who else would work in a bar where the infection had spread and be cornered by pretty much every infected fucker in the whole goddamn place?

No one but Desmond.

He was backed into a corner, a knife clutched in his hand, but he doubted that would do him any good. Screams were resonating through the large club while people either made their escape, were eaten by the walkers, or turned into walkers. Tables and chairs were smashed to pieces and bottles of alcohol were being thrown everywhere, creating the loudest roar of sound Desmond had ever heard.

His ears hurt and his vision was swimming due to the fact that he'd been blind-sighted by a flying bottle of beer and just because he had the _shittiest luck ever_, he'd actually been cut across the cheek by a piece of the broken glass. He knew it was dangerous to have an open wound when the virus was practically swimming through the air, but he had no immediate path of escape and therefore had to stand and fight or die for sure.

An ugly infected woman (who Desmond guessed had been beautiful before the virus,) charged him with speed she shouldn't have due to her decaying muscles and swollen joints. Giving a strangled scream, Desmond slashed at her crazily, the knife cutting deeply into her skin and drawing a copious amount of blood. Some of the thick red liquid landed on his hands and _goddamn it! It burned!_ He decided to ignore the seemingly scalding-hot liquid and instead focused on the next infected coming for him.

What he wouldn't give for a gun.

Miraculously, he managed to fight down a few of the walkers, but he was soon feeling overwhelmed and hopeless. Too many of these things were swarming around him and he just knew that he was the only one left. He knew the odds weren't in his favor and that his attempts to live were futile, but he had to _try_!

Just as he stabbed an infected in the eye, making it squeal madly in rage rather than pain, a tremendous blast sent debris and wind blowing through the remains of the nightclub. Curiosity made him want to look at what had caused a giant hole in the wall, but Desmond had to focus on what was in front of him or he wouldn't even live long enough to find out.

The knife held tightly in an overhand position, Desmond stabbed with as much strength as he could towards the nearest walker, but stopped short when the thing was sliced cleanly in half in less time than it took him to blink. His breathing quickened and he hastily backed away as the zombie's top half fell away from its bottom.

Hands gripping the smooth wood surface of the counter, Desmond watched as a figure emerged through the wreckage, walking calmly and collectedly. A hooded head and black leather jacket came into view, one arm swinging at his side while the other was…_a blade_?

The top half of the appendage was just a regular arm, while red and black tendrils transitioned into a shiny, sharp-looking blade that tipped off at the elbow and continued for almost three feet where the forearm should be.

Alex Mercer. It had to be.

Desmond's suspicions were confirmed when the figure lifted its head, showing bright blue eyes and pale skin. Mercer said nothing, hardly even spared him a glance, but swiftly reached forward to grasp his arm and pull him close. A gasp escaped him when his chest collided with Alex's, and he officially started freaking out when the older man wrapped an arm around his waist and lifted him off the ground.

"What are you doing?" he cried, gripping the tough leather of Mercer's jacket when he felt he was losing his balance.

He was ignored again, which irritated him pretty badly, and gave a terrified scream when the man holding him suddenly kicked off the ground, jumping clear over the bar and landing heavily on the other side. Out of the corner of his eye, Desmond swore he saw Mercer smirking.

Great. Now the bastard was laughing at him for screaming like a little girl. Fantastic.

Mercer's blade flashed as he cut through the infected bodies flooding the nightclub, clearing a safe path for them. Desmond squeezed his eyes shut and held fast to Alex, the sounds of bodies being sliced in half and falling dead making his stomach churn. Soon enough the pair was outside, but for safety measures Alex took them far away from the bar, leaping up to a roof (which had Desmond screaming _again_) and carefully depositing the bartender on the sturdy surface.

He stood to his full height, towering over Desmond and intimidating him slightly. Swallowing thickly, the younger man worked up the courage to ask, "Why did you save me?"

Mercer shrugged, not offering any real answer, and bent down to gently brush his knuckles across Desmond's cheek, just below the still-bleeding cut caused by a shard of broken glass. Wordlessly, Alex dug into his pocket to pull out a small, conveniently-packed first aid kit and tossed it to the shaking man on the ground.

"You should clean yourself up," he said gruffly. He stared deeply into Desmond's chocolate-brown eyes for a moment, making him slightly uncomfortable, and turned away to leave. "And don't worry," he called back absently, "you're not infected."

Well that was nice of him.

* * *

Even after leaping to another rooftop and putting a good amount of distance between himself and the nameless bartender, Alex still found himself questionably wishing to be next to him again. Since he figured that he was more beast than man now, the virus figured it was some sort of animal instinct. He tried to ignore the overwhelming urge to be next to the man, be _close_ to him, but goddamn it, he _needed_ it.

Maybe he could just watch him. Just follow him home. To make sure he made it safe, of course. It would have been a waste to save him if he was just going to die on his way home.

Sighing exasperatedly, Alex turned on his heel and sprinted off to find the place where he'd last seen the bartender. As he'd expected, the man was gone, but he couldn't have gone too far. _God_, Alex was practically going through withdrawal. Why did he absolutely _need_ to have that man in his sight? He was no different than any other person. Regular guy with a regular life (as regular as it could be with the infection) and a regular job.

Wincing, Alex realized that he _didn't_ have a job anymore. The nightclub had been infected. So the bartender wasn't a bartender anymore.

Great.

And there was the overwhelming urge to protect. No job meant no income, and no income meant no food or home, and no food or home meant living in infected streets. And that was certain death.

Suddenly Alex was flying over the rooftops at speeds that even he thought was a little bit ridiculous, but the animal part of him was telling him to _find_ that man and _protect him_. He was a slave to that half of himself so he supposed that, technically, it wasn't his fault.

If it were up to him he wouldn't care so much. He might care a _little_, because that man was a person and he had a purpose, so he deserved a chance to live, right? So he would still save him from the infected building, but tenderly caressing his cheek and trying (in his own way) to comfort him? Come on. He didn't even know the guy's _name_.

His enhanced senses (thanks, BLACKLIGHT,) allowed Alex to pick up on a familiar scent. One that his nose had been filled with when he'd saved the ex-bartender from the nightclub. Involuntarily smiling and hurrying his pace, Alex hit the streets running, startling the New Yorkers he'd landed next to, and skidded to a halt when he reached the entrance of the alleyway the knew the ex-bartender to be in.

In a moment of insanity, Alex sauntered into the alley after him, not bothering to be quiet, and soon found the (weirdly familiar) form of his obsession. The man whirled around when he heard the footsteps and barely managed to choke down a scream of terror when the only thing he saw was a shadowy figure and glowing eyes. The figure moved a few steps closer and the man looked relieved to find that it was only his savior.

A bit of an awkward silence settled over them; what was he supposed to say? In his haste to find the ex-bartender, Mercer had completely overlooked the fact that they really didn't have anything to say to each other. All he did was stare at the younger man, noticing the bandage that covered his cheek and the nervous shifting of his feet. His cheeks colored slightly (_Cute_, Alex thought absent-mindedly) and looked down at a bundle in his hands. Alex's insides warmed slightly (_Strange…_) when he discovered that it was the remains of the first aid kit he'd given him.

"Um…" the ex-bartender spoke, making Alex's ears perk slightly, "did…did you want something?"

Brown eyes rose to meet his icy blue ones, and he found that he could do nothing but stare into those warm-colored hues. He didn't answer the man's question, just continued to stare, which obviously unnerved him, but Alex couldn't find it within himself to look away. When the brown eyes dropped again, landing on the first aid kit once more, the spell was broken.

"Oh…did you…need this?" he asked tentatively, holding out the small box.

He was obviously nervous, perhaps even scared, so Alex spoke to calm him, "No, keep it. You'll probably need to change these regularly." As he spoke he reached his hand out to brush his fingers against the fresh bandages. He hadn't even realized that he was standing so close, but he was glad he was. The warmth of the ex-bartender's cheek was a welcome sensation on his knuckles. The man looked up through full lashes, his eyes conveying just how uncomfortable he was.

"Well then…wh-why are you here?"

"I just…wanted to make sure you got home safe?"

The ex-bartender seemed to sense that that wasn't the whole truth, but decided that it was probably safer not to question a man who could kill him with ease. He didn't fear Mercer; no, if anything, he felt grateful to him. He didn't _have_ to save him from the nightclub, but he'd gone out of his way to do so. Mercer had given him no _real_ reason to be afraid (other than the fact that he could morph both of his hands into sharp, deadly claws,) so why was he so nervous?

"Okay…well, it's not that much farther," he said, worrying at his bottom lip out of habit.

"Shall we?" Alex asked, gesturing towards the end of the alley. Nodding timidly, the ex-bartender cautiously turned around and took a few steps forward. "You don't have to be so careful," Mercer said, catching his attention again, "I'm here to protect you, not hurt you."

The virus's mouth was quirked up at one corner, showing his amusement. He felt his face heat up in embarrassment and he nodded, starting again toward his apartment building. The short walk was slightly awkward, but Alex wasn't focusing on that. The ex-bartender's sweet scent was strong and powerful with him so close and his body heat warmed Alex's arm comfortably. He wasn't much farther than a foot away, and the virus had the incredible urge to just grab him and pull him impossibly closer, bury his nose in his neck and _inhale_, run his hands along the soft-looking skin and a thousand other things, but he somehow was able to resist. All too soon they were approaching the glass double doors of the ex-bartender's apartment building and Alex knew he would have to bid him farewell.

"Well…thanks for walking me, I guess."

The young man was chewing on his lip again and Alex had the sudden impulse to pull that full lip between _his_ teeth, nibbling and licking to pull out whatever response he could from him. _Sweet Jesus_, Alex _needed_ him.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Oh, um…it's Desmond. Desmond Miles." Should he have said that? Alex seemed to mean him no harm, but he really shouldn't be so free with his real name. They weren't exactly alone, after all.

"I'm assuming you already know my name?"

"Yeah…Mercer," Desmond said.

"Alex," he corrected.

"Huh?"

"Call me Alex."

"Oh, uh…okay. Well, thanks again…Alex."

Desmond smiled at him then, just a small, polite quirk of his lips, but it was enough to steal all the air from Alex's lungs. Luckily, he was quickly able to regain his composure and return the offered smile. "I'll see you around," he said coolly as he turned to leave.

"Yeah," he heard Desmond murmur, "later, then."

* * *

He tried. He really did. He tried _so hard_ to stay away, to wean himself of the young man that he'd—for some reason—become so excessively fond of. He was obsessed. He knew he was. And there was nothing he could do about it.

He'd thought that just staying away would be good enough, but it proved too hard of a challenge. He'd managed to rid himself of this Desmond Miles who plagued his mind relentlessly for about half a day, and then he was pining for him once more. Alex absolutely _needed_ to see him, smell him, feel him, anything! Anything to sate this bottomless hunger for a man he hardly knew!

As he'd promised, he did see Desmond again. He saw him multiple times. Desmond only saw _him_ a few times, but that was beside the point. The more he saw him, the more dependent he became, until Desmond was a drug that he simply couldn't bear to be without. And now, here he was, leaping across the expanse of Manhattan to visit his favorite bartender.

Luckily, Alex had managed to find him a different bar to work at (for which Desmond was eternally grateful) and he managed to snag one of his schedules while he was at it. If his timetable was correct, then Desmond would just be getting home and doing his regular routine of washing up, changing into more comfortable clothes, and fixing himself something to eat. He knew it was weird (read: a bit pathetic) that he knew exactly what Desmond did after work, but what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

And he never had to know.

As he landed on the building across from Desmond's apartment, Alex noticed that his living room window was open. That wasn't surprising. Desmond liked having a window open if there was a nice breeze and it was warm. Smiling, the virus soared across the street and hit the side of the apartment building, grabbing onto the edge of Desmond's window for leverage. He easily climbed through the open space and landed gracefully in the bartender's living room.

Said bartender was in the connected kitchen, standing behind the island counter and pouring himself a cup of coffee. Chocolate brown eyes quickly rose to meet his and Alex could practically see feel the tenseness in Desmond's shoulders. Once he realized that there was no threat, he relaxed instantly and slouched against the counter slightly.

"Jesus, Alex, is it too hard to use the door? You damn near give me a heart attack every time you do that!"

Alex just smiled fondly and apologized, "Sorry."

"'S okay, just try to use the door next time, alright?" The virus hummed agreeably and crossed the kitchen to stand next to Desmond, brushing their shoulders together. The bartender thought nothing of it, used to Alex's touchiness by this point.

"Want some coffee?" he asked, raising an eyebrow and lifting his own mug.

"Sure."

* * *

And how exactly had he gotten into this situation? One minute he'd been having a normal, civilized conversation with Alex and then…he was being pinned to a counter, his head connecting with the cupboard above it. Had he offended Alex in some way? He didn't think so—he certainly couldn't think of anything he'd said that could be considered offensive.

Alex's elbows were on either side of his head and he was pinning his legs with his own jean-clad ones. His arms were trapped awkwardly between their chests, his fists clenching in Alex's white dress shirt in fear, and their faces were mere inches apart. Holding his breath, Desmond looked up into the virus's clear blue eyes and saw no hostility in them.

"Alex?" he asked tentatively. "What are you doing?"

He didn't answer right away. He instead opted to bring one of his hands down to trail along the side of his face, fingers gently tracing the scar on his cheek. The wound had healed nicely.

"What is it about you…?" he wondered aloud.

"Wh-What?"

His impulses were kicking in again. Desmond was so close, so warm—he would be a fool not to take this opportunity. Quietly observing the bartender's wide (and fearful, he noticed, a bit crestfallen) eyes and parted lips, he continued to softly brush his thumb against high cheekbones.

"Alex," Desmond whispered.

Then Alex was pulling his face closer and leaning down, their lips meeting in a surprisingly chaste kiss. He didn't try to pry Desmond's lips open, didn't try to deepen it or make it hotter. He just allowed their lips to move together in a passionate kiss. Alex was surprised to find that Desmond wasn't pushing him away or making noises of protest. He wasn't returning the kiss, either, but Alex would take what he could get.

Moments later, he was slowly pulling away, his eyes opening to meet curious brown ones. Realizing what he'd done, Alex backed up a step, and then another, muttering, "Sorry." Before he could make a full retreat, Desmond reached forward and grasped his wrist, spinning him around to face him.

"Alex…?" he asked quietly. "What…why did you kiss me?"

"I—well, I just—I don't know," Alex sighed, "I just…I need you, Desmond."

"What?"

"I need—"

"No, no, I heard you," Desmond said, "but what do you mean you need me? Why? For what?"

"You're just—I'm attracted to you. Ever since I first saw you."

"That night at the bar?"

Alex swallowed thickly. While he was confessing things…

"Well…no. I, uh, I first saw you that day you were being chased by walkers and you almost got hit by a car."

"B—That was weeks ago!" Desmond exclaimed. "What the hell! You've been stalking me?" Alex didn't answer, just looked at his shoes guiltily. "Why didn't you just come talk to me? Am I really that unapproachable?" Desmond asked, placing a hand over his heart and feigning hurt. Alex looked up abruptly, confused and involuntarily a bit hopeful.

"What are you talking about?"

"Alex," Desmond laughed, his lips spreading in a smile and his eyes crinkling happily, "you could have just made a conversation. You know, 'Hi, my name's Alex, what's yours?' This whole thing probably would've gone a lot better if you'd just told me from the start."

Alex was still looking at him as though he didn't understand, which made Desmond roll his eyes and smile fondly. Reaching up to fist his shirt, the bartender pulled him down into another kiss. Pulling away, he said, "What I'm trying to say is, I think you're attractive, too."

Alex smiled.

* * *

"Hi," Desmond greeted with a smile, leaning up into the kiss Alex was offering.

"Hey. How was work?"

"Oh, just your usual. How was…uh…cleaning up New York?"

Alex smiled at Desmond and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Kissing his temple, he ignored the question (because, quite frankly, he didn't need to know the gory details about BLACKLIGHT) and led him to the bedroom.

"Tired?" he asked when Desmond rested his head on his shoulder as they walked.

"Mm-hm," he hummed, hugging Alex's side. "Can we go to bed?" he asked. He used his best puppy-dog eyes (though, really, Alex needed no convincing) to make sure he got what he wanted.

"Sure," Alex confirmed.

Dropping a 'thank you' kiss on the virus's jaw, Desmond continued to lean on him as he was led to the bedroom. When they stepped into the familiar room, he regretfully detached himself from Alex's side, muttering a quiet, "Let me change first."

Alex let him go without an argument and stretched his arms high above his head as he approached the bed. Shedding his clothes—leaving only his boxers—he prepared to climb into bed but was stopped by Desmond's voice.

"You know," he drawled, wandering into the room in a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt in his hands, "I don't think I ever thanked you for saving me from that bar a while back."

"Oh yeah?" Honestly, Alex was a bit confused. He'd saved Desmond months ago; why was he bringing it up now?

Smiling mischievously, Desmond crossed the room, dropping his t-shirt on the floor, and wrapped his arms around Alex's neck. He leaned up to kiss him and Alex was surprised to find that the bartender was opening his mouth submissively, inviting him to claim his mouth. Taking the opportunity, Alex didn't object when Desmond pushed him onto the bed and straddled his hips without breaking the contact at their mouths. Deviously grinding his ass against the elder's crotch, Desmond smiled when Alex growled approvingly.

"You deserve a reward," he decided. Alex chuckled.

"I thought you were tired," he teased. His companion raised an eyebrow.

"Are you really going to question my motives? Now of all times?"

"Nope," Alex said, "you keep doing what you're doing."

Desmond was happy to oblige.

**A/N: Yup. I'm a jerk. Had to cut it off there, didn't I? Well, for those of you who wanted smut…you just might get it. Depends on how many reviews I get. (hinthint)**

**Once again, this fic is dedicated to the lovely HeidiFox for her lovely idea. ;) So thank her!**


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